


Predatory

by usuallyfunctioning



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, John always wakes up screaming, M/M, Moriarty is a sick psychopath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock has a heart, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallyfunctioning/pseuds/usuallyfunctioning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want you here. You want John Watson alive. Life's as simple as that. <i>I'm sure your brilliant brain can keep up.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predatory

"John!” Sherlock shouted, shoving the broken door of the old building open. He stormed up creaking wooden stairs, trailed closely by Lestrade. “John!” he repeated, a thread of panic laced into his usually controlled voice. 

Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he threw open the door at the top of the staircase. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh my god,” Lestrade muttered when he reached the doorway a second later.

John Watson sat restrained and unconscious in a rickety chair in the middle of the room, which—upon further investigation—had been rented out to a certain J. Moriarty. John’s button-up hung loose on his shoulders, his arms were pulled taught behind his back and bound with rope. Puddles of wine-colored blood pooled and stained floorboards; John himself was stained with bruises and blood. 

In a hundredth of a second, Sherlock assessed at least three broke ribs, a blow to the head, bruises, bruises, bruises. Blood dripped from his face to his chest and flowed from his chest down his torso. The cuts along John’s chest were hidden under a blanket of blood. 

In a tenth of a second, Sherlock sprung into action. “Call an ambulance,” he commanded. A phone was already in Lestrade’s hand. “John, John, can you hear me?” Sherlock murmured, rushing to the doctor’s side, his hand resting gently at the pulse on his neck. Slow, but there. 

Shallow breaths puffed from John’s split lips, and Sherlock reached to unbind his hands. John groaned.

Sherlock’s hands fluttered for a split second over John’s shredded torso before realization hit him hard. He wasn’t just covered in random flicks of a knife. John was carved with words nearly unreadable under his blood. “With love,” the words began, jagged under John’s collarbone. “Jim Moriarty.”

Another vibration in Sherlock’s pocket, but he refused to look away from John. “Stay with me, John,” he murmured under his breath. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

Lestrade spoke up, voice tight and harsh. “Alright Sherlock, who did this? What’s going on?”

The ambulance’s siren rang in the distance. Sherlock could barely hear anything but the furious pumping of blood in his ears. 

“Who do you think?” Sherlock hissed. It was obvious; it always was.

Anderson and Donovan appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily. Donovan’s eyes widened, and Anderson’s mouth dropped open. “We—we were just behind you,” Donovan stuttered. “Oh my god, what happened?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, untying and pressing his scarf onto John’s chest. Within seconds, the blue fabric turned red. A soft, strangled moan escaped John’s parted, bloodied lips, but his eyes remained closed. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock muttered, cursing. 

When paramedics rushed up the staircase and carried John back down and into the ambulance, Sherlock followed. 

It was after John had been brought into the A&E and Sherlock had no choice but to sit and wait that he tugged his phone out of his pocket to read the messages. He guessed correctly who they were from. Sherlock was never wrong. 

received: 11:23pm  
[You’ve done splendidly! Now wasn’t that a thrilling puzzle? I know how you hate to be bored. JM]

received: 11:24pm  
[I’m so glad you enjoy your present, Sherlock, dear. Can’t you see it says it’s from me? JM]

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose, phone shaking in his trembling grasp when another message appeared on the screen. 

received: 12:47am  
[Do you suppose our little Johnny will scar? I used my very best handwriting. JM]

received: 12:47am  
[Who knows, Sherl, maybe the little soldier and I will get together again sometime. There’s nothing you can do to stop me, and oh do I love to hear him scream. JM]

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, and he breathed heavily. This was too far. This was too fucking far. John Watson was too fucking far, and Jim was more than aware. Memories ghosted through Sherlock’s mind—this is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head. Too late now. 

received: 12:50am  
[You’ve kissed him before, haven’t you Sherl? Snogged him? Because, and trust me here, if you haven’t, you’re missing out. JM]

He was just chasing a reaction, Sherlock reminded himself. That’s what Moriarty did best. He kept reminding himself as his fingers clicked against the phone keyboard. 

sent: 12:51am  
[Stop. SH]

received: 12:54am  
[Thanks, but no thanks. xxJM]

~~~

The slam of the door behind them made John flinch. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock rushed. 

John drew a shaky breath, cleared his throat, and plastered a tight, fake smile onto his lips. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

John spent almost a week at the A&E gauze was still taped across his chest and wrapped gently in a strip around his head. Bruises littered his body. They said he’d broken five ribs. He could barley see through his right eye. It hurt to breathe. The letters on his chest stung and stung and stung.

John’s hand rested on his cane again, and that, he thought, was the worst of it all. 

John Watson believed he was pathetic. Sherlock Holmes believed John was strong. 

John wobbled to his chair and stifled a groan as he fell back into it. After only a few minutes, Sherlock brought two cups of tea and sat across from the injured man. John mumbled a thanks. Sherlock nodded you’re welcome. 

When he spoke, Sherlock began hesitantly. “Do you want to talk about… anything?”

John forced a humorless laugh.

“What?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes. Did he miss something? 

“This isn’t…” John gestured to Sherlock, to the tea, and sighed. “I just…” Another sigh. “I’ll be fine, Sherlock. I will. I am.”

Sherlock dipped his head in a quick nod and chewed on his bottom lip. “I,” he began, voice low. “I want you to know that I’m sorry. I should’ve been able to do something. I should’ve—“ 

John cut him off. “It’s not your fault.”

They both knew that in a way, it was, but John tucked the blame away and willed it to forgetfulness. Nearly. 

If Sherlock had killed Moriarty, it wouldn’t have happened. If Sherlock had been able to catch Moriarty the first times, it wouldn’t have happened. 

If Sherlock hadn’t been in a black mood for two whole days… If Sherlock hadn’t insisted John go out and leave him be… if Sherlock hadn’t rolled his eyes and dismissed it when John didn’t come come that night because he had found another woman, hadn’t he?

If Sherlock hadn’t always been so dangerously fascinated with Moriarty in the first place…

If Sherlock hadn’t…

The room was silent, but their thoughts were loud. The words hung in the air between them with a noose cutting off their air. 

John jumped again when Mrs. Hudson entered the flat, pressing his eyes closed and taking a deep breath before pulling himself up to greet her. Sherlock noticed; the landlady didn’t. 

“Oh, John, you look awful!” She threw a hand to her mouth, and her eyes were the color of pity. 

“Ah, really? I hadn’t noticed,” John chuckled. His smile looked like a grimace to Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson’s response was half laugh, half sob. “I’ll go make the two of you something to eat.”

“You really don’t need to,” John said, but Mrs. Hudson was back through the doorway. 

“Just this once, dear!”

She trotted down the stairs, and John turned toward Sherlock. “I’m going to go shower,” he muttered. 

“Do you—“ 

“No, Sherlock, I don’t need anything. Thanks,” John sighed. The tension between them became dense. 

“You’re going to need help redressing your… injuries,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“I’m a doctor. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be fine. I can manage.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I have seen them, you know… that night….”

“I know you’ve bloody seen them, alright?! You’ve seen them but that doesn’t mean they’re any less degrading, any less fucked up, okay Sherlock?”

They both inhaled. 

“I—you’re right. I should have…” Sherlock fluttered his hand between them.

John tilted his head back and set his jaw, like the ceiling was suddenly interesting. “I didn’t mean to explode. I’m sorry, I just—“

“No,” Sherlock cut in. “Don’t apologize to me.”

John opened his mouth, thought better of it, and turned to go shower. 

~~~

Sherlock locked the door before John went to bed. John tried, discreetly, to make sure they were locked. 

John locked the door when Sherlock went out. Sherlock made sure the door was locked when John was staying in.

When John slept, he awoke screaming. 

Sherlock didn’t sleep. 

~~~

“We don’t know where he’s gone,” Lestrade muttered when he thought John was out of earshot. (He wasn’t.) “We’ve got no traces, no leads. The bloody psycho’s vanished.”

Sherlock didn’t comment on the incompetence of Scotland Yard or yell at Lestrade for not trying hard enough. He nodded and bit his cheek until the iron taste of blood seeped across his tongue. 

“We’re trying,” said Lestrade. 

“I know,” replied Sherlock.

John acted as if he was out of earshot and tried, unsuccessfully, to still the trembling in his hands. 

His black eyes and cut temple and his five broken ribs and his jaw and his swollen skin throbbed constant reminders. His chest seared with every breath, mocking, mocking, mocking. 

When John looked at Sherlock, he no longer thought “safety.” Safety? John scoffed. At this point, he’d lost his faith.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Or the night after that. 

~~~

John Watson took to napping after getting back from the hospital. He oftentimes couldn’t sleep at night, but rarely had a problem during the afternoon or the morning or midday. 

His most recent blog post dated to a few days before the incident. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson took up the shopping. John didn’t ask Sherlock to watch crap telly with him or ask Sherlock about the cases he’d been doing alone. 

John slept, and sometimes he screamed himself awake. He ate quietly and insisted he was fine, but the black and blue across his face and his reawakened limp refused to fade. 

Sometimes Sherlock looked at him and couldn’t move. 

Sometimes Sherlock looked at John Watson and felt like he was drowning. 

~~~

It was late and dark when Sherlock got home from a case. It was a simple one, just an adulterer.

By the time he reached the flat, a crease of light had pooled from a crack in the door. Sherlock froze in his tracks. Had he forgotten to lock the door? No, no, no. He remembered locking it. 

Panic sped through his veins. “John?” he shouted, shoving into the room. “John!” his shoulders tensed when he saw John lying on the couch, and only after making sure the man was sleeping, breathing in, breathing out, did a relieved sigh escape Sherlock’s lips.

He grabbed their afghan and tugged it over John’s shoulders. 

Then Sherlock saw a cream-colored letter sitting on the table, adorned in red scrawl. Morairty was here, it whispered to him. Goosebumps chilled across pallid shoulders, and Sherlock made sure, once more, that John slept soundly. 

The detective advanced on the letter. Sherlock Holmes, it read. With delicate touch, Sherlock peeled it open and tugged out a note. In looping handwriting Sherlock wished he didn’t recognize, it said: 

Sherlock— I’d like to see you tonight. John is just lovely when he sleeps, isn't he? I’ve come to love it when he screams and writhes, too. —xx J. Moriarty. 

On the back of the note was a name and an address. Sherlock knew he should contact Lestrad. He knew he shouldn’t go alone, and he knew that he was dealing with a madman. ‘John’s lovely when he sleeps.’

Sherlock slid the address into his coat pocket, glanced towards John’s sleeping form, and made sure to lock the door behind him. 

~~~

The cab took Sherlock to an elegant hotel with glowing lights. He should’ve known. The woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow when Sherlock asked for the room number of R. Brook. 

“415,” she said, smirking, and Sherlock thanked her and walked to the elevators. 

Even breaths, even breaths, measured breaths. 

When Sherlock knocked, Moriarty answered, smiling like a lion going in for the kill. No, not a lion. A snake, an eel, a spider. 

“Sherlock,” Moriarty beckoned him into the suite. 

In it was a plush, king-sized bed and extravagant lounge furniture. “I was starting to wonder if you had decided not to come,” Moriarty pouted, exaggerating his frown. “I was getting worried you’d leave me here alone, Sherlock dear, and choose your poor, sick pet over me.”

The man leaned back against a bedpost, crossing his arms. The frown became a smirk. “You’ve missed me, Sherlock. I know you. You’ve missed me.”

“Why did you do it?” Sherlock stood like stone. 

“Well, I’ve missed you,” Moriarty whispered. 

“Why did you do it, and why am I here?” Sherlock hissed. 

“You’re here because I missed you, and I did it because I was jealous. Little Johnny was taking up all your time.” 

“No, no, there’s more to it than that!” 

“That’s all there is, Sherlock. Simple as life. I wanted to have some fun. I was bored! People are boooring.”

“So I’m not boring?” Sherlock spat. 

“You’re not people,” Moriarty breathed, stepping closer. “I want you here. You want John Watson alive. Your brilliant brain can keep up, I’m sure.” The last words ghosted against Sherlock’s ear. 

Moriarty grinned.

Sherlock shivered.

And Moriarty’s grin became predatory.


End file.
